


Just the Two of Us

by apliddell



Series: The Very Best of Times [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Eventual Johnlock, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Platonic Bedsharing, Post S3, Post TAB
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 16:53:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6864721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Temporarily sequestered from the rest of the world while Mycroft works to bring Mary into custody, John and Sherlock have the opportunity to get a few things off their chests.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just the Two of Us

“Let me get this straight,” John leans forward towards Mycroft’s desk with his dangerous smile hovering at his mouth and cuts a glance at me. “I’m going to be snugged up like a princess in a tower while he,” here John jerks a thumb at me, “Runs about risking his life to fix my fuck up. Again.” 

Mycroft and I attempt to speak simultaneously, and Mycroft indicates with a sardonic nod that I should go first. 

“You haven’t done anything wrong, John.” John snorts derisively. I grasp his jacket sleeve and tug gently until he looks away from Mycroft at me. “You haven’t. It was my mistake. My mistakes. You have nothing to correct,” Gaze at him until he nods once, and we both drop our eyes. 

Mycroft clears his throat, “And as it happens, it has been decided that Sherlock will not be involved in any apprehending for this go round. Considering his, ah, history of gallantry. On your account, John. So I have two princesses in my tower, actually.”

“Time for a slumber party,” John mutters. 

Swallow a snort and suppress the urge to kick John’s shoe (brushing mine at the edge of Mycroft’s desk)(our knees are touching). I glare at Mycroft, “That has yet to be decided.”

“That is very much decided, Sherlock,” Mycroft says severely. “And if you try and undecide it, you will be consulting on this case from a cell until its conclusion.”

Open my mouth to retort, but John is nodding in satisfaction, “I get to keep an eye on him, then?”

“I am not an infant in need of minding!” Wish I hadn’t said it that way. “You would be my gaoler, John?”

John turns bodily in his chair, and I fall silent at the look on his face. He shakes his left hand and balls a fist, which he drops down between our chairs, out of sight. “I will not lose you again, Sherlock,” though he speaks deliberately, his voice trembles like his hand, and his eyes brighten as I look into them. “Not going to happen. You’re staying with me, or I’m going with you. Those are the options. Understood?”

Nod once, “Understood.” 

“Well,” Mycroft drums his fingers on the desk. “Thank you for settling that for us, John.” John nods, presses his fist to his thigh. “As to the tower, we had a rather elegant idea about that.”

...

Our (Mycroft’s) car comes to a gentle stop in front of John’s little suburban garden level flat, and Anthea looks up from her phone, “Here we are. I’m meant to ask if you need anything. Toothbrushes? I’ll be back with some clothes for you in the morning, Mr. Holmes.” 

“No, I’ve got things he can use,” John answers for us. “But we may need some shopping. All he really eats is breakfast,” he indicates me with his elbow. 

“What if I don’t want to use your toothbrush?”

“I’ve got a new toothbrush for you, actually. Still in the wrapping. So there.”

“Well,” I address myself to Anthea who has already turned back to her phone, “So there.”

We alight from the car, and John strides up the drive, his head on a swivel, looking for our security, no doubt (council van on the corner, if I’m not mistaken). I follow him, looking about me as well. As John unlocks the door and steps back to let me in, it occurs to me that I have never been inside. John switches on the light, and we stand blinking and looking around. 

The Watson’s sitting room is neat to the point of spare, save the film of dust over everything, and there’s a lonely staleness in the air. There is almost nothing of Mary in it (unsurprising, I suppose)(hairy red scarf hung over a peg along the wall nearest the door). So this is John without me. Our tower. John pulls the door shut behind us and drops his house keys into a dish on the entryway side table. 

“Well,” John says after a moment, “Er welcome. I guess.” He glances at his watch, “Dnno about you, but I’m knackered. Are you about ready to turn in?”

Shrug, “May as well. In case we’re actually allowed to do something tomorrow.” 

John snorts, “Well come on, then. Let’s find you that toothbrush.” He starts forward, then pauses. “Sorry,” John puts a light hand to the back of my neck (tingles)(noshutup don’t think of that now) and brushes my coat collar. “Where are my manners? I’ll take that.” I shrug out of the coat, John hangs it in a coat cupboard. “Scarf?”

Whip it off (end of it whaps me in the face)(hope he didn’t see)(no good, he’s smiling when I turn to him). John hangs the scarf with the coat, then gently tugs my jacket sleeve and brushes past me out of the room. He pokes his head back in a moment later and beckons to me, “Come on, Sherlock.”

“Oh!” Follow him down a short corridor to a bedroom. The room he shared with Mary. Smells of Mary (sweetish handbag lining smell, perfume, hair spray). I try not to look around. On the bed, an open suitcase lies with folded clothes stacked around it. 

“Hmm,” John considers the little pile thoughtfully, then collects pyjama bottoms, a tee shirt, and a rolled pair of socks and tucks them into my arms. “There you are. And,” he turns to the wardrobe and takes a worn pink towel that I recognise from John’s tenure at Baker Street out of the bottom drawer, which he also hands me (smile to hold it in my hands)(silly but can’t help it)(John’s sentimental attachment to it has rubbed off on me)(it’s endearing)(on him). “Have a wash, if you like. I think that extra toothbrush should be in the drawer. It’ll be in the wrapping still. And I know I don’t need to invite you to use anything in there.” 

“Thank you, John.” John half smiles and touches my elbow just for a moment (try not to look at his hand), then points me toward the bathroom. 

Run the shower, clean my teeth, and get undressed slowly (still stiff round the scar), carefully avoiding the mirror (skinny, pale grey, scarred)(used to be so vain of my looks)(I’ve still got my hair, at least). Sigh when I get in under the steaming spray. Deliciously scalding. Stings. Shut my eyes and tilt my head back for a moment (or a handful of moments), then look round for something to wash with. Nearest is a little bottle of thin, pink, iridescent liquid. Sniff cautiously, expecting another reminder of Mary. 

It smells of John, actually. As he always has. Clean, masculine, vaguely evergreen. I know I have never seen this bottle before (and I’ve looked). New bits of John, even now (I haven’t seen all of him)(shut up!). Smile foolishly as I squeeze out a palmful of that pink liquid. Lather it up between both hands, and smooth frothy handfuls over my throat, my chest, my belly. Linger rather guiltily over my groin, then jerk my hands up toward the shower head to rinse away the foam. 

Step out onto the bath mat, towel off roughly, and emerge from the bathroom very pink and gawky in John’s pyjamas (too short both top and bottoms). John is not where I left him. 

“John?”

“In here,” he calls from nearby. Follow his voice to find him in another, smaller bedroom. There’s a flatpack with an illustration of a cot (funny little pang looking at it)(think of that later) on the front propped against one wall. Opposite it is a crisply-made day bed, and John’s crouched between them on the floor, clad in his pyjamas and wrangling a fitted sheet onto a lilo. 

“Are we sharing your guestroom? John, this is your house.” 

John shrugs, “Sort of.” He begins to stuff a pillow into a pillowcase, “At the moment.”

Edge forward to stand between John and the beds, rather wishing for my dressing gown, “At the moment?” I make to lower myself onto the lilo, but John taps my arm. 

“Don’t be stupid. That’s you,” he indicates the bed with a nod. 

“You’re stupid,” I sit down on the lilo, and John nudges me with his leg. 

“Up you get,” he says Doctor Watsonishly (mmm). “You’re still recovering.” He presses his palm to the site of my injury on his own ribcage in illustration, “You’re sleeping in a proper bed.”

“I’m fine, John. Don’t be ridiculous.”

John nudges me again, and offers his hand to tug me up, “Only a fool argues with his doctor.” 

Take John’s hand and let him haul me to my feet, “Is that what we’re calling you these days?”

“It’s as good as anything we’ve ever come up with,” John drops onto the airbed with remarkable dignity and pulls off his socks, then begins to plump his pillow. 

Take my cue and peel back the corner of the sheets, “True.” I get into bed. 

John spreads his duvet out over the air bed, and gets up to switch off the light, “I rather liked best man,” he remarks as he re-situates himself. 

Pull the blankets up to my chin and squint for John’s shape in the darkness, “You called me that, actually.”

“You said it first,” the airbed sighs as John shifts about, trying to get comfortable. “Ages ago. I wasn’t sure if you were taking the piss at the time.”

“That doesn’t sound like me.”

John pauses in adjusting his position, “No, it doesn’t really, does it?” We’re quiet for a bit, save for John’s shifting every few seconds. He flops onto his side with a cross little grunt and punches his pillow. 

“Anytime you’d like to shut up that’d be just marvellous, John.” 

“This stupid thing is no support at all. I can feel the floor in every single vertebrae,” John flops again. 

“Well,” lick my lips and rub my palms together, “You might come up here.” I try and lie very still. 

John sits up, “Up there with you?”

“I’m certainly not taking the lilo after all this, John.” 

“You don’t mind? I’ve always imagined you going sort of elbowy in the night.”

“If I minded, I wouldn’t offer. Elbowy?” He imagined?

“Am I wrong?” John rises from the air bed, and his pillow precedes him onto the bed next to me. 

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never elbowed myself, if that’s of any comfort to you.”

“Elbowing yourself.” John lies on top of the blankets, but I toss the edge over him, “That’d be talent. Have you-” he checks himself and tugs at the blanket a little. He’s warm. There’s a hand’s breadth between us. Hold my breath for a moment, waiting for my heart rate to slow. 

Give it up and answer anyway, “I’m a bit more generous with you than I am with most people.” Oh god. I used his stuff in the shower. I smell like him. 

“Ha, yeah. I know. I know this isn’t a. Most people situation.”

Open my mouth. Shut it. “Well. Good night. If I scream in the night, just give me a kick, and I’ll roll over.” 

Soft shhh of John’s hair against the pillow as he turns his head toward me (smell the mint of his freshly cleaned teeth). Want to edge back. Conspicuous. Want to lean in. Can’t. “That wasn’t a joke, was it?”

“You always think my jokes are funny.”

“Mm. True.”

“I don’t scream much. Generally, I wake myself up after a bit. I think.”

“We’ve got to do something about your standards for a good night’s sleep.” Under the blankets, the edge of John’s hand brushes mine and does not withdraw. “Wake me if you need me.”

“To sing me a soothing lullaby?”

“You don’t have to act like the idea of me helping you is so stupid,” John’s voice is soft and tinged with hurt. 

Mortifying, “No, no of course not. You always help me.”

“Well. I always try.” John doesn’t actually shrug, but there’s a sort of shrug in his voice anyway, “Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night.” Shut my eyes and try and match my breathing to John’s. I don’t think I’ll sleep. But I do. 

...

Wake again in the darkness to the sound of John’s voice. Listen for a moment. He’s talking to me, “Hmm?”

“Oh hello,” John pushes up onto an elbow, “You’re awake.”

“I’m awake. Weren’t you. Trying to wake me just now?”

“Yeah. You were having a nightmare.” 

“Oh. Did I scream?”

“No,” John says seriously. “You didn’t scream.” He offers nothing else. 

My heart is beating fast. Again or still. I don’t know what to say, “Sorry to disturb you.”

John shrugs, “Well, if you want me, you can have me.”

“Have you.”

“You were calling for me,” John is still speaking in a soft, sweet, nightmare disruption voice. I kick off the blankets and sit up. “Where are you going?”

Cough, “Glass of water.”

John dithers a moment, then gets out of bed. He holds out his hand, then drops it, “I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

“You’ll make it? You remember how it’s done?”

“Do you?”

Smile, “Fair enough. All right, then.” Follow him out of bed to the kitchen. John installs me at the kitchen table and begins to fuss with the tea things. I watch with my head pillowed on my arm, “Have you always looked after me this way? Feels new.”

“No. Yes,” John sets the mug down on the table in front of me. “It is a bit. I’m rather waiting for you to decide you don’t want it, actually. You never seemed to before.”

“To be looked after or to drink tea? I do.” Sip my tea in demonstration, “But this is revolting. God, John what have you done here? This isn’t tea. Looks like piss, tastes like dust.”

John laughs, “It’s herbal tea, Sherlock. Camomile. It’s meant to be soothing.” 

“Ah,” I sip again. “Disgust is restful, I suppose.” John laughs again, so affectionately that I have to glance away. “Ah. Mmm. John.”

“Yes, Sherlock?” 

Steeple my index fingers and press them to my lips, then drop my hands, “I’ve, ah. I’ve had a sort of epiphany on the plane, John,” pause, but he seems disinclined to interrupt. “Thank you for looking after me. It was just what I wanted.” 

John smiles and puffs up a bit, “Anything you like, Sherlock. Any time you like.” 

“I shall remember that.”

“I hope so.” We smile at each other (it’s like looking into a light). John clears his throat, “Are you hungry at all?”

Raise my eyebrows, “Have you actually got anything in?”

“I could do you some beans on toast.” John pulls half a loaf of bread wrapped in waxed paper out of the freezer, then begins to pull things out of the cabinets and assemble options on the worktop. Butter, beans, raspberry jam, honey, Marmite. John carves off a few slices of bread as I dither, then finally plump for the Marmite. 

“I could have told you that and saved you the time,” John remarks, as he butters and toasts the bread. 

“Why didn’t you, then?” Fetch down a pair of plates from the cabinet. 

“You don’t like being told. You’re like a cat.” Wave of retroactive homesickness washes over me, so strong that my eyes sting. I look down at the table, fold my hands in front of me. 

The toast comes out, and John spreads it thickly (Marmite for me, raspberry jam for him) before sliding my slices over to me. 

Take a large bite and sigh around my mouthful (there’s that wistfulness rising again) before something occurs to me, “Hang on, you hate Marmite.” 

“That’s why I’m having jam instead.” 

“And,” pull the jar of Marmite to me to confirm my suspicions, “It’s a new jar.” 

“And air bed. And toothbrush,” John agrees. 

“For me? All this is for me?”

“Of course.” John cocks his head, surprised, “You’re my best friend. I can have a few snacks in to suit you.” 

“But I’ve never even been here.”

John shrugs, “Not because I didn’t want you.” 

Drop my eyes to my toast, feeling rather ashamed, “I didn’t know you wanted me.”

John brushes my wrist with his fingertips and waits for me to look into his face, “I can’t remember the last time I didn’t want you.” 

Open my mouth. Shut it. Open it. Hot all over. How long have I been silent? “Have me,” I say. “I’m yours.” John raises his eyebrows, and my face is so hot and tight that I know I must be bright red, “I er. Wasn’t. I wasn’t using me anyway.” Cough over nothing, “You’re my best friend too, John.”

John cocks his head at me considering, then nods as if in decision, “Sherlock. Erm. I think I. I’ve been a bit. Presumptuous? I mean. You. You’re Sherlock.”

What? “Yes, I’m Sherlock.”

“I just mean. Erm. You er. You do things. Differently. I don’t expect you to be like other people,and. I think I’ve been a bit hard on you about that, I’m sorry.”

I can’t make him out at all, “What have I done now?”

“No, nothing! You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Raise an eyebrow and stare at him, “Well, thank you for tolerating my Marmite habit, John. It’s very good of you.” Stuff the last corner of my toast into my mouth for emphasis. 

John half laughs and finishes his toast as well, “I’m not making sense am I?”

“Not to me, sadly.”

“I just. I don’t want you to think that I. Expect anything in particular,” John says earnestly. “All I want. I mean, I know I cocked it up. I wish I could undo the stupid shit I’ve done over the last year, and if we could have it back like it was, that would be.” He pauses for a long, long moment, then glances at the ceiling and nods, “That’s what I want. Sherlock. Erm.” John looks down for a moment. Shakes his left hand, then clasps his hands together on the table. “I’ve been. Right. I always expect you to just. Know what I mean without me ever actually saying it. And. It isn’t fair to you, I think. What I’m really trying to say is, er.” He gusts out a little breath of laughter (sets my stomach fluttering when he looks at me like that)(don’t get distracted), “I want for us erm. God, are there even-er.” He stamps his foot once and looks up at the ceiling, still half laughing. 

I’m a little alarmed now looking at him, “It’s all right, John. Just spit it out. I’m listening.”

John nods, “Thanks. Yeah, you’re right. Er. Okay. I want. I want to be er. Hatman and Robin,” he gestures between us meaningly, and I can’t help grinning, though I’m not sure I understand him. “You be Boffin Holmes, and I’ll be Bachelor Watson.”

“Are those also superheroes?”

John laughs a little nervously, “You be the good coat; I’ll be the short friend. You be. You be the thrill of the chase. I’ll be the blood pumping in your veins.”

“The two of us against the rest of the world.”

John looks enormously relieved. He nods several times, “Exactly. Yes, exactly.” 

Take a moment to absorb, “You’re coming home? Back to Baker Street, I mean?”

John smiles broadly (still he looks sad)(???), “You want me to come?”

Smile back just as broadly, “Lost without my blogger. Remember?”

“I’d come tonight,” John nods eagerly. “I’m not staying here another second I don’t have to.” He adds, “I’m sorry I left. I shouldn’t have.”

Shrug, “I forced your hand.” 

John shakes his head vigorously, “No, no. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Sherlock! I just. I want you to know. However you want to do it, that’s how we’ll do it. I mean. Not,” he sighs and shuts his eyes for a moment, “I don’t want anything you’re uncomfortable with, that’s all. I’m not. I just don’t want you to feel. Pressured. Like before.” 

“Pressured,” frown slightly. 

“That’s sort of why. Well. That isn’t important; I’m mixing in too many things, I think. That’s why I’m not getting on.”

“You have more to say than that you’re coming home?”

“Yeah. I dnno why I keep thinking we can have a talk about this without actually talking about this.”

“Very English of you.” 

John giggles and gives me a gentle kick, “No, don’t make jokes. We’ll laugh, and then I’ll never get through it. Christ, I’m tired. Okay. Here I go.” He squares his shoulders, “I used to think you’d be better off without me hanging round you all the time, wishing. But erm. It looks like being apart hasn’t worked for either of us at all, so I think. We should go back to being together except erm. This time. I just want you to know that er. I don’t. We don’t have to do things the usual way. If you. Don’t want to. If you don’t like doing relationship things, it doesn’t matter to me. I just thought. You should know that this time. There.” He nods. 

I gape at him. Relationship things. I’m not sure if I’m going to sink down through the floor or bob up onto the ceiling. My head feels far away from my body; that’s all I know. 

John pats my shoulder (tingles), “You okay, Sherlock?” I wish I knew. “Right, I can’t tell if you’re mortally offended or doing that. Non talking thing. Nod your head, if I don’t need to go and flush myself down the toilet.” I nod, and John smiles, “Okay then.” His hand is still on my shoulder (tip of his little finger brushes the bare skin of my arm). I can’t think. Sit staring at John for what seems like a long time. He smiles back at me, and it hurts, but I look anyway. 

Relationship things. Wishing. I stand up, and John rises as well, “I want to go back to bed.”

John cocks his head, “All right. Do you want me to come along?”

“Yes.” 

John leads the way. 

I pause at the foot of the bed to let John into it first, then lie down on my side next to him. Near enough, but not touching. Shut my eyes and listen to his breath for a moment. A little quicker than usual, I think. “This is a relationship thing, isn’t it?”

John laughs softly, “Yeah, for the most part. Did you like it?”

“I still like it. All right?” The mattress trembles as John turns to lie on his side as well and I open my eyes. 

His face is so soft. Rather serious but so gentle. A caress of an expression, “All right.”

“John,” shut my eyes again. 

“Yeah?”

“Would it be all right if I. Kissed you?” Fidget with the edge of the blankets. 

John breathes warm on my face as he leans in to answer, “Yes.” 

I open my eyes. I kiss him. A tiny kiss. A whisper. A wish. 

...

We’re both on our backs, John and I. Shoulder to shoulder and looking up at the ceiling (could I look at him and speak simultaneously?)(not at present though surely I have done in the past)(he fills me up)(the sight of him)(I’ll burst soon; I’m sure of it)(not a frightening notion somehow)(it’s a moult coming on)(ergh poetry). “I do like some normal things.”

“Bond night,” John agrees. 

“Mmm. Hugs.”

“Really?” John turns his head to look at me with mild surprise. 

“From you,” obviously. 

He grins, “Oh. Fish and chips.”

“Though mainly the chips, actually. I’m almost a vegetarian because of you.” 

John is surprised again, “Because of me? We haven’t lived together in three years.”

“I assure you I’ve been counting, John.” Pause a moment, “Sorry, was that rude?”

“A bit,” John says quietly. 

“It just sort of stuck. Lots of you has stuck to me.” John sort of giggles, and I frown, “What?”

“That was really really sweet is all.” John strokes my forearm, while I fail to think of a coherent response. “What other normal things do you like?” 

“Erm.” Turn my hand palm up, “Holding hands?” John takes it eagerly. His is warm and very soft, except for a couple of calluses dotted along the top of the palm. He rubs his thumb against my hand (there’s that bursting feeling again). 

“What about this?” John raises my hand to his face and kisses it (drag of his stubble tingles), “Do you like this?”

Tuck in my chin to hide my foolish smile, “Yes.” John kisses my hand again (his lips are chapped)(I shall burst; I know I shall). 

“Mmm,” John hums against my hand, then lowers it to hold it over his chest and pet it. “I think I like a bit more sleep before I get up for the day. Do you like kissing good night?”

Swallow down some giddiness, “You first. I went first last time.”

“Oh, are we taking it in turns?” John pushes up on his elbow and leans in. He cups my jaw with his free hand and kisses me delicately (I may be trembling)(strings under a bow)(I’m full of him I’m full I’m full). I wrap my arms around his waist, and John allows me to draw him closer and lays his head on my chest. We sigh in unison, and John makes a little hum of pleasure and satisfaction. I hold on tightly. I’m full I’m full I’m full I’m full. 

“Your heart’s going fast,” John remarks after a bit. He pets my chest just over my heart as if to quiet it. It’s love, I want to tell him. I’m in love with you. Can’t speak. I hold him tight. Tight tight tight, as if we could merge. John shuts his eyes (those eyelashes!) and presses his face against my chest. John kisses my chest, clutches at my shirt. And I don’t know why it is (perhaps it shouldn’t be)(though that doesn’t matter) but that does me. 

I burst. My shrinking, cracking, splitting self falls away, and I’m raw and fresh and tottering, whole and new.


End file.
